


Memories of a Summer Past

by sigh_no_more



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:02:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigh_no_more/pseuds/sigh_no_more
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the last night of the June barricade, the remaining Amis remember a similar rebellion with a very different outcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories of a Summer Past

_June 5, 1832_

 

Night had long since fallen, and the fighting stopped. Or, more accurately paused. Enjolras was not naïve enough to believe their enemy would give up. He had sent away those he could – women, men with families. They did not have to die tomorrow. He was proud of his friends for insisting on staying, but a small voice in the back of his head almost wished they were less brave. They had already lost many men that day including Bahorel and Prouvaire.

Enjolras closed his eyes and tilted his head back for a moment. Bahorel had gone out the way he would have wanted: fighting. And Prouvaire had been brave until his last breath. _Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the future!_ It was a death to be proud of and Enjolras hoped when he died he would show similar courage. His biggest regret was that if it had been indeed time for Prouvaire to die that he had to die alone.

“Get some rest,” Enjolras told the remaining defenders. “We will need it tomorrow.”

No one went to sleep. Instead, they broke off into small groups almost unconsciously, gravitating to those they were closest to. What did anyone care for sleep, when soon most of them would fall into death’s eternal slumber. Enjolras found himself with what remained of the Amis’ inner circle. His lieutenants, they had called themselves. And they dubbed him their chief. He wished he had been a better leader.

Enjolras sat himself near the top of the barricade. He had enough cover to keep watch, but was able to still be near his friends. Some of the men had procured wine from the cafes. Grantaire made as if he was going to get some for their small group, but Bossuet stopped him. Grantaire raised an eyebrow quizzically and Bossuet reached into Joly’s medical bag and pulled out a bottle of wine.

 

_Bossuet_

 

The group cried out in surprise.

“How long have you had that?” Courfeyrac said, his face breaking into a smile.

“I thought I would surprise you with it.”

“He certainly surprised me,” Joly muttered. “I believe you stashed _several_ bottles in my bag. I had wondered all morning why my bag suddenly was almost too heavy to carry.”

Bossuet smirked and took the first swig of wine.

Grantaire glanced at the label on the bottle and looked taken aback. “I remember this! You have had this the whole time?”

 

_July 1830_

 

“Are there more soldiers?” Joly asked Bossuet. He was covered in blood, but thankfully not his. He had been in fine form, serving as a medic to their wounded.

Bossuet chanced a look over the barricade. There was undoubtedly a large number of people marching in their direction.

“Yes, but they’ve put down their weapons,” he grinned.

There were hundreds, if not thousands of people – citizens and soldiers alike – marching side by side. Through the indistinguishable shouts of joy, he could discern phrases such as, “It’s over!” and “Vive la France!”

The Amis quickly clambered over the barricade to join them. The tidal wave of people almost threated to swallow Bossuet up, and he did not mind. He could see most of the Amis in his periphery, milling on the outskirts of the street. He did not know how long they mingled with the crowds when he spotted a familiar curly haired figure. He hid a smile when he caught up with Grantaire.

“Capital R.”

“Bossuet!”

Somehow, Grantaire had managed to befriend a group of men pulling a wagon loaded with wine they had commandeered from one of the palaces they looted. Even more surprisingly, Grantaire had talked them into giving him an armful of bottles.

“You astonish me,” Bossuet said.

“Thank you,” Grantaire opened one of the bottles and took a swig. “Would you care for some?”

Bossuet liberated several bottles from Grantaire’s arm.

“That is not what I meant,” Grantaire said, almost pouting.

“Content yourself to one bottle for now,” Bossuet said. “This is no ordinary wine. We should save it for a special occasion.”

 

_June 5, 1832_

Bossuet had stashed the wine in Joly’s bag a few days before. He knew another rebellion was brewing, and thought they could drink to celebrate victory when it was all over. It seemed less and less likely that such a time would come. If they would not have the chance to use the wine drink to their victory, they could use it to drink to the lives that they and friendship they had shared.

He took the first swig and handed the bottle to Joly.

 

_Joly_

 

The air smelled of sweat and gunpowder. It smelled of rust, of blood. It smelled of death. What had the air smelled of in 1830? Joly could not remember. It must have been the same, the scientific portion of his brain argued. They had fired weapons in 1830. They had bled in 1830. A few (not in their ranks specifically) had even died in 1830. And yet Joly could not remember the stench of death when he thought of that July. A stench so powerful, it pierced through his congestion. When he thought back to the barricades they erected almost two years ago, he did not remember rivers of blood flowing through the streets. Any blood they had spilt had not been an ominous signal of death, but a reminder they were still alive.

 

_July 1830_

 

The fighting had barely begun. It was more of a skirmish than a battle, and for that, Joly was glad. He would fire his weapon when the time came, but he rather hoped to delay that moment. As a rule, Joly strove to preserve life, not take it. So far it seemed that there were no fatalities on either side, and that any injuries were minor.

Of course it could not last.

Bahorel slammed into the wall next to Joly and sank down quickly.

"Joly. Just the man I was looking for."

He grinned, showing bloodied teeth.

"What on earth happened to you?" Joly gasped.

"This is nothing," Bahorel said with a chuckle.

Joly hazarded a look around. No one else looked to be in nearly as dire a state as Bahorel. Having a bloody mouth was the least of the damage he had sustained. He was also sporting the beginning of a black eye, scraped fists, and most worryingly of all, a gushing gash located on one of his shoulders.

"Let me get Combeferre," Joly said, trying to rise.

Bahorel  stopped him with his uninjured arm. "I wasn't looking for Combeferre. I was looking for you."

Joly froze. "How exactly did you get those?" he asked suspiciously.

"By performing a daring act of heroism."

"You did something rash and foolish and are afraid of what Combeferre will say."

Bahorel huffed. "No." He paused. "Partially. But _you_ are the future doctor, so I wanted you."

"Combeferre also studies medicine," Joly muttered, trying to keep his voice and hands steady. He had only just started practicing on living patients, and that was always under the careful supervision of one of his instructors. The reason for Combeferre's medical studies stemmed more from curiosity and a thirst for knowledge rather than because he intended to practice it, but Joly would much rather he perform the necessary processes on Bahorel. At the very least, he wished Combeferre were there to watch and advise.

"There's no time," Bahorel said. Then he added with surprising softness, "I trust you."

Joly swallowed. "Apply pressure to the wound. I need my bag."

He moved quickly, ducking his head and clinging to the shadows. When he returned with what he needed, Bahorel without ceremony took off his shirt to give Joly better access to the wound.

"Those damned guards have no sense of decency," he said, crumpling the ruined shirt. "This was made by one of the finest tailor in Paris. This is one of my best."

"Perhaps you should not wear your best clothes when going to battle," Joly said dryly, staunching the cut.

This notion seemed to offend Bahorel. "If I am to die, I would rather it be in my finest clothes than every day rags."

"I'll remember that for the next barricade," Joly said, glancing down at his own admittedly worn clothing.

Bahorel laughed. “I do not think the opportunity will arise for quite some time,” he said. “But I will take you with me when I go out one evening. We can find a magnificent brawl for you to get roughed up in.”

“A kind offer.” The wound did not seem to require any stitching, so Joly began dressing it.

“But one that you will not take.”

It was Joly’s turn to chuckle. “I have heard your stories, my friend. I am not sure I would survive an evening full of your adventures.”

He neatly tied the bandage. Bahorel admired his handiwork. He stood and flexed his muscles before (reluctantly) putting back on his shirt.

“You might have a scar,” Joly said.

“I shall wear it with pride,” Bahorel replied. “A memory of a battle well fought.”

“That is one way of looking at it,” Joly said, returning his supplies.

“Thank you, Joly. A fine doctor you shall make one day,” Bahorel beamed. And Joly believed him. If he could care for his friend on a battlefield with little training and resources, then one day, he could be doctor in a hospital.

Bahorel spared only enough time to clasp Joly on his shoulder before returning to the frontline. His place was soon filled with another young man with another wound. Joly patiently tended to it. He was going to be a doctor.

 

_June 5, 1832_

 

Joly remembered how no matter how many wounds he bound that July, the men all leapt to their feet, seemingly reinvigorated. Today had been different. The wounded seemed weary. He thought back to Bahorel, who seemed like an ancient, terrible god of battle, unstoppable and invincible. But he was gone now. Joly had not been able to save him when it really mattered. 

He took a swig of the wine and put the bottle in Grantaire’s outstretched hand.

 

_Grantaire_

 

He had been right all along. He had told Enjolras, he had told them all, and they had not listened. Such was the cruel world that he could not even glean any satisfaction at being proved right. What satisfaction could there be when Bahorel and Prouvaire were dead, and the rest of his friends soon to join them? There had been a time when he almost could have believed they could succeed in anything. He would give anything to go back.

 

_July 1830_

 

Grantaire had surprised everyone, including himself by showing up sober. And staying sober for the entire three days. He jokingly told them the next time they planned to rebel against the government not to expect such a performance from him.

The revolution was over. They had won. _They had won_. Grantaire could hardly believe it. None of their group had died. They were alive and had won. In a daze, he staggered towards the street, where thousands of victors were marching, shouting and singing. He had been separated from the rest of his group and mingled amongst the other rebels. (Were they still rebels now that they had won?) He had managed to somehow find wine when Bossuet came out of seemingly nowhere and confiscated most of it.

He tottered after Bossuet, still marveling at the fact that they had succeeded. He glanced around the crowd of celebrating Parisians, when he saw him. Enjolras was sitting above the populace on what remained of the barricade. He was not looking down on them with a terrifying wrath Grantaire had so often seen. He was instead smiling like a benevolent god. When he spotted Grantaire, he called out to him.

“Grantaire!” He extended his hand.

Grantaire found himself clambering up to join him. Enjolras watched the rest of the Amis shout exuberantly with a fond expression.

“Won’t you join them?” Grantaire asked, knowing the answer.

“I wouldn’t know how,” Enjolras replied. “I would ruin it for them.”

It did not surprise Grantaire that Enjolras thought so. In his devotion to his cause, he had missed learning how to celebrate. But he seemed content to observe, so Grantaire was content to sit with him.

“Look at them,” Enjolras said, gazing at the crowd, bursting with pride. “The people united, Grantaire, and look what we have accomplished. Together we have shown the world that we will not be silenced. We shall overcome any tyranny that dare try to impose itself on us.”

Today had been nothing short of miraculous to Grantaire. It was not in his nature to believe such a victory would last. Tyranny was deeply imbued in humanity. They had defeated one enemy, but soon another would arise. But just for that day, Grantaire silenced the cynic in him and saw the world as Enjolras did. It was full of such conviction and hope it was almost blinding. Enjolras’s faith in people and their power was beautiful. He wished this vision could last forever.

 

_June 5, 1832_

 

Grantaire almost wondered how the same people who had united less than two years ago could hide away in their houses now. But he knew – it was human nature. The Parisians’ fear condemned his friends to death.

And Enjolras knew- of course he knew. For an optimist, he certainly could be realistic when it came to strategy. He knew they were going to die, and yet he still believed in them, and in the people. How, _how_ could he believe in them, when his belief was not reciprocated and that lack of belief on the part of the people was going to be the death of him? How could he believe that one day the world he dreamed of would be achieved?

Enjolras’s faith broke Grantaire’s heart. 

“I need more wine,” Grantaire muttered. He staggered away from their circle, pressing the bottle in Feuilly’s hands.

 

_Feuilly_

 

Feuilly watched Grantaire go. He wanted to call out to him, but who was he to stop the man from drinking himself into oblivion? The Amis had their conviction to sustain them. Grantaire had no such weapon to shield himself from his fear.

Conviction was the light that protected Feuilly from the shadows of doubt. Brotherhood was the light that warmed his spirits.

 

_July, 1830_

 

Feuilly had not been with the Amis for very long when the barricades were erected. He had stumbled on them by chance, and had been weary of them. How sincere could they, some of the most privileged young men in the country be about helping people like him? Still, they were friendly and their enthusiasm infectious, so Feuilly found himself in their ranks that July.

He was impressed with ferocity the Amis showed as they assembled their barricade. He did not expect a group of rich young boys to know how to go to battle. And yet there they were, topping carts, stealing furniture, and firing shots off at the approaching guards. Feuilly raided nearby stores for barrels with Joly and Bossuet. Once they had emptied out one basement, he dashed across the street to a café they had not yet raided when suddenly, he was knocked off his feet. He looked up to see Enjolras shielding him with his body, and the café door above them splintered from a bullet. Feuilly exhaled shakily, only beginning to process the fact that his head had there just seconds ago.

Enjolras helped him to his feet, brushed off his coat and gave him a quick smile before hurrying off to help Combeferre with something. He shook off his dazed state to finish the task at hand.

It was only when the barricade was complete and the students had settled in for the night (the fighting temporarily stayed) that Feuilly was able to seek Enjolras out again.

“I did not thank you for earlier,” he said.

Enjolras looked confused.

“You saved my life,” Feuilly clarified.

“You do not need to thank me,” Enjolras said. “It was nothing.”

Feuilly frowned. “My life may not seem as important as others,” he said. “But it means a great deal to me and I am grateful.”

“My friend, you misunderstand me,” Enjolras said, grasping his shoulder. “We are brothers. Of course I saved you. Would you not do the same for me?”

“I would,” Feuilly said, surprised at the readiness with which he answered.

“Get some rest,” Enjolras said, patting him on the back one more time.

Feuilly settled in, Enjolras’s words swirling in his head. Brothers. He had never had a family, but it seemed he finally found one. Because he knew that he would die for any of the men, and he somehow knew they would die for him too. They were brothers through the bonds of battle and the bonds of friendship. Feuilly closed his eyes. Despite the enemy on the other side of the barricade, he felt safe. This was where he belonged.

 

_June 5, 1832_

 

The love Feuilly felt for his friends only grew as time went on. The coming day loomed over their heads, but he still knew this was where he belonged. Wherever the Amis went, he went too. Courfeyrac caught his eye and winked. Feuilly gave a small but sincere smile in return. He could think of no other way he would rather die than side by side with his brothers.

 

_Courfeyrac_

 

Feuilly handed Courfeyrac the bottle, and Courfeyrac was suddenly struck with a fondness for the man. They teased Enjolras for his open and ardent admiration of Feuilly, but he was right. They were lucky Feuilly had decided to join them at the first barricade, and that he had decided to stay around long enough to fight with them at the second.

1830 seemed a lifetime ago. They had been green back then, prepared to fight, though they did not understand exactly what that meant. They knew now, and Courfeyrac felt a surge of affection for his friends that they were still willing to fight.

 

_July 1830_

 

The first round of fighting took them all by surprise. Talking of battle was one thing- seeing it another. In Courfeyrac’s mind, the fighting would happen in quick spurts. He was wrong. The first battle lasted all evening into the beginnings of the night. It was only when it was dark that exhausted, both sides agreed to stop for the time being.

Courfeyrac fell to the ground, exhausted.  After a shaky start, they held their own quite well, but now that the last shots subsided, and he had time to process what had happened, he felt a little shell-shocked. He could have died. He easily could have died several times.

He flinched when someone sat next to him. It was Combeferre, holding a splintered wooden post.

“What is that?”

“I ran out of bullets,” Combeferre muttered, looking embarrassed.

Courfeyrac nodded, slightly impressed. Combeferre always spoke of how education was the way of the future, but apparently he was still not above fighting. It was not that Courfeyrac ever doubted Combeferre’s devotion to the cause, but it was one thing to know Combeferre would fight for them, and another think he had fended off men with nothing but a large piece of wood.

“Here,” he gave Combeferre half of what remained of his supplies.

“I cannot take this,” Combeferre protested.

Courfeyrac shoved the small bag in Combeferre’s hand. “I insist.”

“Thank you,” Combeferre said quietly. “If we are ever forced into another fight, I will be better prepared.”

“Did you not expect it to be like…this?” Courfeyrac did not know how to articulate ‘this’.

“No,” Combeferre leaned his head back, looking at the sky. “I did not. I am serious though. If it happens again, I will bring my own private arsenal.”

“That is a sight I would have to see to believe,” Courfeyrac chuckled.

He followed Combeferre’s gaze. The stars were out, and they were breath-taking.

“I never had much time for the stars,” Courfeyrac confessed softly.

“You seemed occupied with more earthly pleasures,” Combeferre replied. There was no judgment in his tone- he was merely stating the truth.

“They’re beautiful.” Courfeyrac lowered himself so he was resting on his back. “Tell me about them?”

“What do you want to know? Shall I tell you of their movements? The science behind their light?”

Courfeyrac wrinkled his nose. “No. Tell me their names. Tell me the stories the ancients gave them.”

Combeferre too settled on his back. “Look at that one there. That is Hercules.”

Courfeyrac followed the pattern his finger made. “The great warrior.”

“The very same.”

“Do you think one day they will name stars after us?” Courfeyrac joked.

“Not of us,” Combeferre said. “Perhaps of Enjolras.”

They both laughed. Out of all of them, Enjolras had the makings of a legendary warrior. If one of them would be made historical, it would be him. He was more severe, more devout, and he shone brighter than them. He would also be offended at the notion he be the only one of the Amis to be immortalized in the sky.

“Let us rename Hercules Enjolras,” Courfeyrac suggested.

“No. Let us rewrite the stars,” Combeferre said.

“ _You_ try to undo the old order?” Courfeyrac clutched his chest. Combeferre loved to pour over ancient philosophy texts and read of history.

“What are we doing right this minute?” Combeferre asked dryly.

“Oh. Right.”

“We’ll rewrite them all,” Combeferre said. So they did. Courfeyrac fell asleep while Combeferre drew the figures of their friends into the sky, describing exaggerated tales of their great deeds.

 

_June 5, 1832_

 

The stars seemed farther away now than they did that July. Was that possible? Courfeyrac would have to ask Combeferre. He wished they had written down the stories Combeferre had made up, because they were beautiful stories. If neither of them made it, their stories would be lost. Why had they been selfish and kept them to themselves? Courfeyrac could not bear the thought that one day no one in the world would know their lives.

Combeferre was watching him, so he forced a smile.

“Our spirit,” Combeferre said to him in a low tone. “That is what will remain. Our principals, our dreams. They will be passed on. Forever.”

Courfeyrac looked back at the stars, and Combeferre’s words suddenly comforted him. There had been countless other young men like them fighting for freedom. Surely the spirit of past revolutionaries lived on through them, and so their spirit would live on through others. The stars did not seem so distant now.

 

_Combeferre_

 

Courfeyrac was calm now. His smile was sincere as he passed over the bottle. “They’re beautiful,” he said of the stars. Combeferre nodded, and knew they were remembering the same moment. Courfeyrac had fallen asleep under the stars, and woken up with the first rays of dawn. Combeferre had not slept at all. First he had wanted to comfort Courfeyrac, and then he volunteered to keep the watch so Enjolras could get some rest.

It was at the first light, when they were slowly waking up that they received a surprise.

 

_July 1830_

 

Enjolras called for silence, his face grave. A captain of the guard had approached their barricade, waving a white flag. Grantaire was muttering something about a trap, but Enjolras quieted him.

“We will listen to him.”

By that, Enjolras meant he intended to climb over the barricade and talk with this man. Combeferre liked to believe in his fellow man, but in this case, when his best friend’s life was at stake, faith was not a luxury he could afford.

“I will go with you,” he said using his sternest expression so Enjolras knew there was no room for argument.

Courfeyrac and he made eye contact. He silently implored Courfeyrac to stay behind and Courfeyrac nodded. If he and Enjolras were both ambushed, it would be up to Courfeyrac to lead. He was also a damn good shot, and Combeferre was comforted by the thought that Courfeyrac might be watching over them. They left their weapons behind before meeting the captain halfway. He seemed nervous. Enjolras looked at him coolly, waiting for him to speak first.

“We do not wish to fight you,” the captain said.

“We will not surrender,” Enjolras said immediately.

“No, of course not,” the captain said. “But you are our brothers, and we yours. It is senseless to kill each other. Let us join you.”

Combeferre and Enjolras exchanged astonished looks.

“You wish to join us?” Combeferre repeated uncertainly.

“Do we not all want the same thing? A greater France? We have heard your message, we have listened. The king might order us to fight, but we have decided no more. We will not kill you anymore.”

“This is a trick,” Enjolras said, but he did not look convinced.

“It is not. We will join you at your barricade, if you will have us. And I have spoken to other units who are of a similar mind. Let us stop the bloodshed.”

Enjolras and Combeferre looked at each other again. Combeferre nodded.

“Citizen,” Enjolras said to the captain. “It would be an honor to have you.”

This was a solution that Combeferre had only dreamed of. To lay down arms, and to exchange words not bullets. This was the future he wanted, and finally, it was here.

 

_June 5, 1832_

There were no calls for negotiation now, no surrenders, nor would there be. The lessons learned had apparently been fleeting.

 

_Enjolras_

 

Combeferre reached up and handed Enjolras the bottle. It dully registered in Enjolras’s mind that he was always slightly separate from his friends. He did not to it on purpose. Had it been wrong, however unintentionally to put that distance there? He had not minded before. It allowed him to see the bigger picture.

 

_July, 1830_

 

Courfeyrac had finally coaxed Enjolras down from his perch where he and Grantaire had watched the jubilant crowds.

“Come, now! It is over,” he laughed. “Even you cannot resist the festivities.”

Enjolras leapt down in one fluid motion that Grantaire mimicked. They marched down the streets – students, soldiers, citizens all shouting joyously to each other. Enjolras drank in each detail, cataloging it. He was sure that in his life, he would not experience many moments that were so saturated in such triumph and camaraderie.

“Listen,” Courfeyrac slung his arms around Combeferre and Enjolras’s shoulders.

Through the incoherent cries, Enjolras detected a song.

“Tremble! Your parricidal schemes/will finally receive their reward!”

“ _La Marseille_?” he asked.

“Everyone is a soldier to combat you/if they fall, our young heroes/the earth will produce new ones/ready to fight against you!”

It had been banned under the monarchy after the Revolution. And now the people had reclaimed their song and were singing it in the streets. It was the sweetest sound Enjolras had ever heard.

_June 5, 1832_

 

“The day of glory has arrived!/Against us tyranny/raises its bloody banner…”

For a moment, Enjolras thought he was hearing echoes from his memories. But no, his friends were singing _La Marseille_. They started softly, but with each line grew more and more rousing. Soon, the other men at the barricade joined in.

“Do you hear, in the countryside/the roar of those ferocious soldiers…”

Enjolras finally picked up the bottle. Courfeyrac nudged Combeferre. Slowly the rest of the Amis noticed, and all feigned varying degrees of shock at the sight of Enjolras holding wine.

“To arms, citizens/form your battalions/ Let’s march, let’s march!”

Enjolras raised the bottle to his friends. By this time, they had distributed the rest of Bossuet’s wine bottles and had found cups of their own, which they raised in return. Enjolras took a drink – not enough to get drunk or dull his senses. But enough to show his solidarity, respect and his love. When he set the bottle down, his friends were smiling. Courfeyrac patted him on the back. He set the bottle down and joined them in song.

“To arms, citizens/form your battalions/ Let’s march, let’s march!”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you reading my (belated) contribution to barricade day. 
> 
> It's not exactly historically accurate, or exactly like either the Brick or the musical, but I wanted to focus on the characters rather than accuracy. Feedback is welcomed/encouraged. 
> 
> This was my first and probably last canon era fic. As you can probably tell, it's not exactly my strong suit. I will be back to your regularly scheduled rom-com ish fics soon. 
> 
> [Come say hi](http://babesatthebarricade.tumblr.com/)


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